The Problem: JFK would not allow Israel to have the nuclear bomb and plutonium from ... (*Weissman arrived Nov 4th in Dallas and departed on the 27th. ... The wife of Yitzhak Rabin, Leah Rabin, revealed in a biography, that Rabin was in ...

Jul 12, 2007 - Conspiracy theories abound regarding the Kennedy assassination. ..... been to Russia and who married a KGB Colonel's daughter killing JFK are ... to Leah Rabin's autobiography, Yitzak Rabin was in Dallas the day Kennedy

In December 1963 only a month after the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy in Dallas,Texas, Bob Dylan stated or rambled that,"... I got to admit that the man who shot President Kennedy, Lee Oswald, ... I got to admit that I, too - saw something of myself in him ... "

http://expectingrain.com/dok/who/o/oswaldleeharvey.html

Oswald, Lee Harvey

The man who was arrested for the assasination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas,
November 1993.
On December 13, 1963, Bob Dylan received the Tom Paine award at a Bill of Rights dinner
held by the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee in New York. At this dinner he held a
very uptight and confused speech saying things like
"... I got to admit that the man who shot President Kennedy, Lee Oswald,
... I got to admit that I, too - saw something of myself in him ... "
This was less than a month after the assassination.
More here:
Tom Paine Letter

Nov 22, 2013 - The man born Jacob Leon Rubenstein allegedly told his rabbi the day after shooting Lee Harvey Oswald that he did it to.

.............

http://forward.com/culture/185293/lee-harvey-oswald-and-the-jews/

Lee Harvey Oswald and the Jews
by Peter Savodnik , October 10, 2013

Before he killed the president of the United States, Lee Harvey Oswald
was a metal lathe operator at a radio and television factory in Minsk.
He had defected to the Soviet Union in October 1959, hoping to take part
in a revolution that, unbeknownst to him, had been snuffed out three
decades earlier, when Stalin liquidated the old Bolshevik guard.
When Oswald learned of this he fled to Moscow, since he hated America
and his mother. The KGB did not want him to stay, and they refused to
extend his six-day tourist visa, but then Oswald tried to kill himself
in his hotel room and they relented. In January 1960 he was sent to
Minsk, which was sleepy and far away from anyone important.
In 1960 and early 1961, before Oswald met his future wife, Marina
Prusakova, the people who inhabited his world were mostly Jews. Even
though their Jewishness had been attenuated and warped by their Soviet
experience, it flickered on. It was, in fact, unmistakable. Their
religious identity colored their thinking about the Soviet Union,
communism, the war, the West, God and man. They were different, even if
they didn’t like to think of themselves as different, from the Russians.

This had a profound, if subtle, effect on Oswald and his experience
inside the Soviet experiment. That effect was felt in ways concrete and
not-so-concrete, in Oswald’s daily life and in his political fragments:
very short, disjointed essays on the Soviet Union, the United States and
what he called his “Atheism System,” which pieced together elements of
communist dogma and capitalist theory and was as juvenile as it was
overwrought and misguided.
The most important Jews in Oswald’s life were Alexander and Alexandra
Ziger; their daughters, Eleonora and Anita, and the woman he met at the
factory and proposed to outside his apartment building January 2, 1961.
Had Ella German said yes, it’s hard to imagine Oswald returning to the
United States when he did: German, probably the only woman he ever
loved, did not want to leave Russia.
Oswald met other Jews at the factory, including Sasha Rubinchik, an
engineer and one of his Russian tutors; Leonid Botvinik, a metal-lathe
operator, and Maxim Prokhorchik, also a metal lathe operator, who later
married German.
Many of the people Oswald worked with at the Experimental Department
of the Minsk Radio Factory were partly Jewish. There were two reasons
for this: elements of the huge, prewar Jewish community that had not
been eradicated by the Germans, and anti-Semitism in Moscow, which
fueled official fears of too many Jews working on important things
related to the defense of the country (like rockets and radar systems)
and channeled them into more bourgeois capacities, such as designing
television sets. The Jews, like the Americans, had been consigned to a
factory that made things the Politburo did not care that much about.

In his
diary, Oswald, who had met few Jews in the United States, signaled that
he was aware of religious differences. He spent most of his childhood in
Louisiana and Texas, though he lived for a year and a half in New York.
He called German a “Jewish beauty,” and there is a passage in his
essay, “The Collective,” that describes the death camp in Minsk and a
man at the factory with a brand on his forearm.
And there is even a vague suggestion in Oswald’s writings that he
wanted to belong to this community, in so far as there could be said to
be a Jewish community in a country that was officially godless. He
enjoyed the sense of family — the Zigers often had him over for dinner,
and the New Year’s Eve he spent with German and her extended family,
replete with heavy drinking and dancing, was probably his most memorable
night in the Soviet Union — and he admired Alexander Ziger’s and
Rubinchik’s intelligence and culture.
Oswald had fashioned himself an intellectual before he arrived in the
Soviet Union, and he frequented the opera and music conservatory,
things that he almost certainly associated with Jews.
But Oswald probably did not appreciate the ways in which the Jewish
sense of otherness shaped his thinking. In fact, this sense of otherness
had made itself felt long before Oswald even knew there was a country
called the Soviet Union. It was a random protester, demonstrating on
behalf of the Rosenbergs, who first alerted him to radical politics.
This probably took place in late 1952 or 1953, when people were still
protesting the Rosenbergs’ conviction and when the Oswalds were living
in New York, where Lee would have been likelier to encounter a
sympathizer of the Rosenbergs than in, say, Texas.
Oswald was probably 12 or 13, and he knew nothing about history or
politics or Marx or the Cold War. Still, seven years later, when he was
camped out in a hotel room in Moscow, waiting for the KGB to decide what
to do with him, and an American reporter asked him how he had become a
communist, Oswald recalled that day in New York. He explained that this
was when the Marxist idea had first been planted in his head and led him
to read “Capital” and, later, to imagine what it might be like to live
in Russia.
Similarly, it was Alexander Ziger who, just a few months after Oswald
turned up in Minsk, suggested that Oswald reconsider his Soviet
adventure. The next year, 1961, when Oswald told Ziger that he was
thinking about returning to the United States, Ziger told him he thought
that was a good idea.
Oswald, so far as we know, never discussed his reservations about
Soviet life, but they were understood. Oswald’s Jewish experience played
on his own sense of alienation. He was, almost by design, incapable of
building a home for himself. He had joined the Marines, and then he had
ventured to the Soviet Union, believing that he would transcend this
feeling of permanent homelessness, and in both cases he was left deeply
unhappy.
There was something oddly “Jewish” about Oswald’s feelings of
dislocation. The ineradicability of Jewishness that contemporary
anti-Semitism, with all its biological imperatives, imposed on Jews
seemed to parallel Oswald’s mounting fear that, no matter what, he would
be never escape his rootlessness.
Alas, the Jew has a tradition and people in which solace and meaning
can be found. Oswald did not. He had hoped that in Russia, in the
motherly embrace of the communist utopia, he would be able to escape his
misery, and he was wrong. When he returned to the United States in June
1962, he was no longer simply displaced — he was enraged. He did not
see it this way exactly, but the feelings of anger and helplessness were
unavoidable, ineradicable. The great divide between Oswald and his
fellow floating ions was, of course, Oswald’s reaction to these
feelings. The Jewish impulse, however quixotic, has often been to build a
better world, one that moves beyond notions of otherness. In Oswald’s
case, it was to destroy it and himself. He was, in this last, tragic
effort, successful.Peter Savodnik is the author of “The Interloper: Lee Harvey Oswald Inside the Soviet Union.” He lives in Washington, D.C.